


Every Sinner Has a Future

by DaraOakwise



Series: Every Sinner Has a Future [2]
Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Julius is a carer, M/M, Malcolm's mental health is debatable, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 07:01:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13382610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaraOakwise/pseuds/DaraOakwise
Summary: Julius, Rt. Hon. The Lord Nicholson of Arnage, had assumed he knew what he was getting into when he invited Malcolm Tucker into his home and his life. Rather like inviting a wolf to come and stay.Julius considers his mercurial boyfriend, post series.





	Every Sinner Has a Future

**Author's Note:**

> A story in response to an anonymous Tumblr request for Malcolm/Julius. Rated for 60 year old men vaguely discussing their sex life, and Malcolm speaking.

 

_The only difference between the saint and the sinner is that every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future -- Oscar Wilde_

 

In retrospect, he hadn’t quite known what he was getting into. Well, he _had_. Or he _thought_ he had. Rather like inviting a wolf to come and stay, he’d assumed.

No. That comparison was not fair. A man was not a wolf. Not an animal, for all that he could fight ferociously and inspire terror and loathing in equal parts. A man had an inner life. Hopes, desires, fears. Could be awed by beauty and gutted by loss.

Still, Julius, Rt. Hon. The Lord Nicholson of Arnage, had assumed he knew what he was getting into when he invited Malcolm Tucker into his home and his life. It had not come, as many assumed, after Malcolm’s fall. It had not been a ‘ _relationship by pity fuck_ ,’ as Malcolm himself sometimes claimed when he was trying to be outrageous, or cruel.

The invitation, breathlessly given, and cheerfully accepted—although not without a jab at his (their) sexuality—had come long before. A bright spot, for them both, in the days of Opposition, built on late-night suppers, delightful arguments about everything, witty vulgarities about anything, holding hands at art shows that Malcolm pretended not to enjoy, mercurial fallings-out, and sex that was more tender than anyone who thought they knew Malcolm would ever have believed.

“Stay,” Julius had finally found the courage to ask, and, to his everlasting surprised delight, Malcolm had.

Still, it had been a secret, of a kind, although in truth a rather ill-kept one. Even after all these years, Julius did not know if the secrecy had been borne of Malcolm’s shame, or out a misplaced desire to protect Julius from the fire and shadows that Malcolm trailed in his wake. Julius didn’t need his protection, and had told Malcolm so; even after the Inquiry and police investigation (dropped, in time, but only after the damage had been done), Julius had easily shaken any splattered shit from his reputation.

But Malcolm? Well, Julius really hadn’t known what he was getting into.

 

i.

 

He was beautiful when he worked. Not when he ranted and screamed and invented obscenities, although that could be amusing, as theater went. When he _really_ worked. Malcolm’s true gift was not the terrifying public face that, at the height of this powers, had made ministers wet themselves in the halls. His true gift was an unquenchable thirst to know _everything._  So many late nights, his profile silver and gold in the lamp light, while he absorbed newspaper articles and policy briefs alongside blackmail material and Shakespeare and fucking _poetry_. All that knowledge held in his clever head, tools for his deadly tongue.

It made him a class traitor, of course, putting on airs about how fucking _smart_ he was, better than the rest of _us honest workers_. And among Julius’s peers, open displays of effort were embarrassingly plebeian. Genius, if possessed, must be effortless. It was all a load of bollocks, but bred into them both. And so Malcolm’s real work always came when no one could see him, but those very few he permitted to see.

He’d always let Julius see.

Malcolm had fretted and paced, after it became clear that the scandal was merely going to end his career and not his life, wondering what he was going to do. Julius had laughed at him. “Don’t worry, darling,” he’d said. “Your phone will start ringing soon enough.” And it had. Slowly, quietly, politicians and businesses in dire straits started calling. And, when Malcolm felt like it, faltering campaigns suddenly gained new life. Ugly policies got a burnished shine. Lurking public relations disasters pivoted at the last moment into stock-inflating coups. Discrete and ruthlessly efficient, Malcolm was The Fixer, for the right causes—or, failing that, the right price.

Malcolm was working, and Julius too, when Julius huffed into their study. Well, _theirs_ in name only; it was overflowing with Malcolm’s books and papers, strewn with half-finished energy drinks and satsumas.

“Damn damn damn,” Julius muttered, and sat heavily in the chair across from Malcolm.

Malcolm didn’t even look up. “Watch your fucking language, you fucking limp-wristed, pillow-eating poof. I won’t have such half-arsed attempts under this roof.”

Julius ignored him. “Read this and tell me what’s wrong with it,” he said irritably, plucking the book out of Malcolm’s hand and replacing it with his stack of papers.

“What, aside from the fact that it’s a fucking compromise that betrays all our principles?”

Julius held up a warning finger. “Malcolm. You’ve not … You’ve not even read it. And I’ve been working on this for a long time.  I would like for you to read and critique it like you would for any of your clients. And I don’t need the vulgar colour commentary or the self-loathing homophobic insults today, I really don’t.”

Malcolm read the introduction, then glanced slyly up at Julius. “No self-loathing homophobic insults, and you lead with this? Fuck, make it hard on me.”

Julius reached for his papers, which Malcolm jerked away. “This is clearly a bad idea, you are not in the right frame of mind, and I need this for tomorrow. So just…” Julius lunged again for his papers. “Fucking give it over,” he said angrily

“Julius, just…”

“No, I don’t want your fucking help, just give it back.”

Malcolm held the papers in the air. “Julius don’t be a child.”

Julius smiled, disbelievingly, half out of his chair. “ _Me, ‘_ don’t be a child?!’”

Malcolm put one hand on Julius’s chest to sit him back down, papers still held out of Julius’s reach in his other hand. “Jesus, Julius. I’ll read it. Just sit the fuck down and stress-eat some fucking biscuits or something.”

Julius took a deep breath. “Your professional opinion. I don’t have time to fuck around with this.”

“My professional opinion,” Malcolm soothed. He pulled a blue pen out of his pocket. “May I?” he asked, and gestured to the paper.

“So long as it isn’t fucking dick pictures,” Julius grumped, folding his arms across his chest. Malcolm held up a placating hand and leaned over the report, making notes in the margin as he went. After a few moments he leaned back in his chair and stared through Julius, lips moving as he ran through synonyms, then he crossed out a word and went back to work.

“Are you just going to sit there and watch?” Malcolm asked, eyes still on the paper in front of him.

“You’re beautiful when you work,” Julius answered softly.

Malcolm raised his eyebrows. “You have the oddest fucking kinks.” Julius rolled his eyes, but before he could answer Malcolm leaned forward and pointed to a heading. “This section, are you sure?”

Julius gave a half shrug. “As you noted, it is, alas, a compromise. We’ll never get it through without it.”

“Tastes like shit going down,” Malcolm grimaced.

“The hope is that we can candy-coat the shit with the policies we want.” Julius frowned “Oooh. That was a bad metaphor.”

“That was a fucking _terrible_ metaphor,” Malcolm groaned, “please don’t ever say anything like that ever again.”

He was beautiful when he worked. And it wasn’t his mobile face, as much as Julius loved it.  It wasn’t his quick and witty tongue, as delightful as sparring with Malcolm was when Malcolm was at his best. It was his eyes, grey-blue as the light of the waning day moved around them, and then, after dark, lit from within by the fire that still burned in him, dangerous and sublime.

 

ii.

 

For years now, Julius had been responsible for picking up Malcolm’s medications from the chemist and carefully arranging the pills by day and hour in the container in their kitchen. Malcolm knew that Julius thoroughly researched and checked every change.  It was Malcolm’s way of telling his lover how he was feeling without, God forbid, actually _speaking_ of it. An intimacy of action and trust instead of words. And Malcolm took Julius’s meticulous daily log of symptoms and observations with him to every appointment. Not, as Malcolm had once explained to his therapist, to replace his own feelings and recollections. (He often disagreed with Julius’s conclusions, in fact.) But because Malcolm made better decisions when he had Julius’s guidance.

Julius had received an unexpected reminder call from the chemist that afternoon. A disquieting omen, as the regular medications were not due for refill. He’d had his driver take him immediately after work and, errand accomplished, Julius stepped over the threshold of their home. He handed his coat to the houseboy with a murmur if thanks, and told him he could go home for the day. Then he went looking for Malcolm.

Empty kitchen first, and his heart sank.  Malcolm liked to cook, especially for an appreciative audience like Julius, and was damn good at it. He’d said, more than once, that he found it meditative and centering after a day hunkered over his work in the study, and usually had something ready for their supper by the time Julius came home from Whitehall. That he didn’t tonight was frankly a bad sign, and not just because Julius was hungry.

Julius followed the sound of the television to the study, where Malcolm was sitting twitchily on the couch, irritably flipping through the channels and swearing at the idiots on the news. Not necessarily unusual, but not ideal, considering everything else.

Julius swept in, a touch grandly, by intention. Malcolm startled a bit. “I’m starving,” Julius announced. “Shall I order takeout?”

“Fuck if I care,” Malcolm muttered, distracted by the television.

Julius ignored the attitude, which wasn’t really directed at him. “Thai?” he asked. Malcolm didn’t answer. “Malc?”

“Sorry, fuck, what?” Malcolm asked, refocusing. “Right, dinner, whatever you want. I’m not very fucking hungry.”

Julius dug through the parcel from the chemist, then sat down beside him and put the bottle on the end table. “Risperidone,” he said simply, and Malcolm sighed and scrubbed his hands through his hair and down his face.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Malcolm said.

“As we have discussed, on many, _many_ occasions, you don’t have to apologize,” Julius said sadly.

“I can’t fucking sleep,” Malcolm admitted. “I started writing _three_ fucking books today. It didn’t even occur to me to cook tonight, because I’ve only fucking cooked supper at the _exact same time_ for the last fucking _how many years_? I’m …. I’m ….” He picked up the bottle of medication, popped off the top, a dry-swallowed a pill. He gestured despairingly to his head, and then to the air in the room at large.

“I know,” Julius said gently.

“I fucking hate this,” Malcolm sighed, and leaned his head back on the cushions behind him. “It’s been fucking creeping up on me for a week. And I’m sorry because I’ve let it go too far already. It’s so fucking _seductive_ when my brain is telling me this is how I’m supposed to feel, if I just _let the fuck go and stop fighting it,_ I can topple mountains and overthrow governments. Ten years of hard therapy telling me that’s a lie, while my fucked up brain chemistry is telling me that _normal_ and _stable_ is settling for mediocrity.”

Julius sighed, then picked up Malcolm’s hand and kissed his knuckles, instead of speaking the words he wanted to say.   _Malcolm, you called your physician.  You recognized the symptoms and asked for help before you lost control again._ Julius desperately wanted to tell him how well he’d done, but there was no way of saying that didn’t sound patronizing. Hell, it _was_ patronizing.

Malcolm’s political career had ended deep in a serious manic episode. It was before Julius had taken over responsibility for the medication, and so he hadn’t realized that Malcolm had stopped taking _everything_ until it was too late. Julius had begged, threatened, and called the doctors, but there was nothing anyone could do. There was a difference between ‘ _I can rewrite British politics, Julius, just watch me,’_ and ‘ _the aliens are telling me to rewrite British politics_.’ The former was a phrase Malcolm had actually used in the heat of their arguments, while pacing like caged lion.  The latter would have been enough to put him safely into hospital, but despite Julius’s unspoken prayers that it might materialize in time to save him (a horrible thing to hope, but all Julius had in those dark days), Malcolm had never been that far gone.

Julius had also recognized the very moment when the switch flipped over to the other, equally dangerous, side.  Outside a fucking _police station_ , with two words, on national television: a hopeless “doesn’t matter.” Julius had been in his office, watching the coverage while on three phone calls trying to save his train-wreck of a boyfriend’s political life. Those two words had stopped him cold. It had taken a day and a half, and most of his accumulated favors, before Julius could work out which hotel Malcolm had fled to. Because, of course, he hadn’t come _home._

Julius had pounded on the door and shouted until Malcolm opened it.

“We’re fucking done,” Malcolm had said, witheringly, and shut the door in Julius’s face. Julius had gaped at the door, then pulled out his mobile and _lied_ to Malcolm’s doctors.  _He said he’s going to kill himself._ It was more than enough to get him into hospital.

That kind of lie was a tremendous betrayal, but Malcolm had never called Julius out on it. Instead later—much later, when the darkness lifted—he had told Julius that he hadn’t realized he’d spoken it out loud. The admission had chilled Julius straight through, and changed a fundamental part of Malcolm. Matters of the heart he kept for himself, but of the head—he gave keeping of that to Julius

 

iii.

 

In ways both profound and trivial, their relationship was broken into two epochs: _Before_ and _After._

 _Before_ , they went out quite a lot, but usually anonymously, or with a carefully curated set of genuine friends. Dinners, plays, parties, shows, but away from the wagging tongues of the papers. Malcolm in black tie, flirting outrageously with everyone in sight.

 _After_ , it had been hard to get Malcolm out of the house, but when they did, they didn’t care who saw. And while Malcolm could still be magnetic--witty, charming, with the power to command a room--he saved his smiles for Julius alone.

Julius was lounging in his dressing gown, wallowing in the weekend newspaper and a second cup of coffee, when Malcolm slouched half-gracefully into the sitting room. Malcolm never lounged, in dressing gown or otherwise, in much the same way that a velociraptor never lounged. Presumably.

Julius watched him from behind his newspaper while Malcolm fiddled with the decor, none of which he liked and about which he’d voiced his frequent displeasure. Which Julius ignored, because at least _some_ of the niceties had to be observed.

From where Julius was sitting, Malcolm seemed to be feeling marginally steadier. He also clearly had something on his mind, but Julius had learned long ago never to push.

“Do you want to go out for lunch?” Malcolm finally asked, plopping down into the ‘ _pink chair of fucking horror_ ,’ the only one in the room Malcolm found comfortable.

Julius sat straighter. “I would like to go to lunch, if you would like to go to lunch. _Like_ to go, not sulk as if I am attempting to poison you with classist sandwiches.”

“I would like to fucking go to lunch,” Malcolm growled.

“Anywhere in particular?” Julius asked delicately.

“That kind of decision making is currently beyond me,” Malcolm answered with a nasty half-laugh, directed entirely at himself.

“I could make a reservation?” Julius offered.

“I would fucking appreciate it,” Malcolm answered. Then he sighed. “Why the fuck do you put up with a cunt like me?”

Julius folded down his newspaper and pretended to contemplate the question. “Well, for starters, I get my very own swearing Scotsman, so there’s that,” Malcolm nodded, conceding that obvious point. Julius continued, ticking the points on his fingers: “You are good at making dinner. You are a joy to argue with. For reasons that pass all understanding, I like your bony arse. And, oh yes, the sex is pleasant, plentiful, and takes no more effort than turning over in bed and fondling you obscenely.”

Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Fuck you very much for that ringing endorsement, that makes me feel so much fucking better,” he pouted.

“Love remains mysterious,” Julius concluded with a long suffering sniff, and went back to his newspaper.

“Love?” Malcolm asked with a faint smile.

“Yes, Malcolm, love,” Julius answered, and stood. He offered Malcolm his hand, which Malcolm regarded with suspicion. “It’s  something I’ve only told you five- or six-thousand times, so I can see where the word would catch you off-guard.”

Malcolm squinted up at him. “You’re fucking mental, son,” Malcolm said, fondly.

“No doubt,” Julius answered, his hand still outstretched.  

Malcolm took it and stood, a twinkle in his eye. “I’m not going to say it, you auld baldy fucking queer, just because you do.”

“Of course not,” Julius answered, and held Malcolm’s gaze when Malcolm reached out to cup his face. Malcolm studied him quizzically, like he was staring into a puzzle he’d never understand.  It was an expression that Julius knew Malcolm had borrowed from him.  Then he leaned in and kissed him,  melting Julius’s bones.

“Who the fuck isn’t dressed by ten in the morning, honestly?” Malcolm asked, pulling away and wandering down the hallway.  “M’lord Poncytwat.  Get dressed, love, you promised me lunch.”

 


End file.
